Rúan and I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the outdoor triclinium, looking toward the guests and the sea beyond. I tried to ignore the rumble in my belly. I’d taken Apicius’s warning about being poisoned to heart and hadn’t eaten anything that day save for some radishes I’d pulled from the garden and small tastes from various dishes I myself had prepared.
Apicius and his guests chatted merrily, enjoying the cooling salt breezes, marveling at the pomegranate sunset over the ocean. A three-sided couch, or triclinium, held nine guests to represent the nine Muses, as tradition dictated. Each diner lay on his side propped up by one elbow. A square table rested at the center of the couch, laden with hard-boiled quail eggs, grapes, olives, and little treats to whet the appetite. The guest of honor that night, in unusual form, was a woman. She lay laughing in the coveted position on the far left of the middle couch, next to Apicius.
“Who is that?” I whispered to Rúan. I was grateful for his willingness to help me navigate the politics of Apicius’s household.
“Fannia, an old family friend of the Gavii. She recently remarried but you’ll not meet her husband anytime soon.”
I was about to ask why but Rúan continued, gesturing at the man who sat between Fannia and Apicius’s mother. “I don’t know the name of the man at the end of the couch but I think he’s another money-hungry lawyer interested in Popilla’s dowry.”
I leaned back into the kitchen and indicated that the next set of servers should deliver the lobsters and oysters to the table. I held my breath until the slaves set the snow-and shellfish-laden platters down and turned back toward the kitchen after an exaggerated bow.
Rúan chuckled as Popilla immediately reached toward the tray to snatch the largest piece of lobster tail on the plate. We watched the diners extract the oysters from their shells with the pointed handles of their spoons.
“That’s Trio and Celera.” Rúan indicated a young couple reclining on the other side of Fannia. Trio was a handsome man with thinning hair and a jawline characteristic of the long Caelius line of Roman patricians. Celera seemed about fourteen or fifteen and appeared to be with child.
“Apicius said that Publius Octavius would be in attendance. Is that him on the other side of Fannia?” I asked.
Rúan pulled back to let one of the slaves pass by. “Yes. His father was a senator but Octavius doesn’t seem to be following in his footsteps. Instead he spends his money on parties and his time on sucking up to people close to Caesar. His wife is the one with the red hair.”
“Is he from Baiae?”
“Nay, from Rome. He has a summer villa here. I’ve never been to Rome, but I hear the summer is unbearable.”
Rúan was right, summers in Rome were said to be miserable. As a result, Baiae had become a hotspot for the wealthy to bask in the sea breezes and spend time on the beaches in the summer.
He continued, “Apicius doesn’t like Octavius, but he always says to keep your enemies close. I think they used to be good friends, but now everything between them is a competition.” Rúan rubbed his hands together. “Should I get the hams ready to go?”
“Yes. I want them still hot when they arrive at the table.”
When the hams were presented, Aelia laughed at their golden-brown bodies and the pastry snouts and ears.
“I’m not sure I can eat this! What a marvel, Thrasius!” She reached forward and carefully detached one of the pig ears from its body and popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the crunchy pastry. “Well, perhaps I can!”
I smiled and motioned for the scissor slave to start cutting up the rest of the hams into bite-size pieces.
When the slave had finished cutting the meat and the diners were delighting in the dish, Apicius waved me over with one tanned arm high over his head. Turning back to his guests, Apicius gushed, “I must introduce you to my new coquus! Come here, Thrasius.”
The smile he wore belied his earlier dour mood. He indicated a nearby stool and motioned for me to bring it to the table in the center, uncharacteristically closing off the U shape of the triclinium, a request that surprised me. The delicious smell wafting my way reminded me of my hunger and started my belly rumbling.
“So this is your new acquisition,” Octavius said, eyeing me up and down. A little shiver ran down my spine. “I didn’t expect him to be so young. How many tricks can someone that age have up his sleeve?” He snickered.
I said nothing and kept my eyes firmly fixed on a couch leg carved into a lion’s head and paw.
“Yes, do tell us,” Popilla agreed, her tone caustic. “You can’t be more than fifteen. How do we know that this isn’t the only dinner you know how to prepare?”
Apicius shot his mother a look that could have turned a basilisk to stone. The tension grew thick with the implied insult to her son. The eyes of the would-be suitor at her side grew wide at the exchange.
“He is nearly twenty, mother. Thrasius, tell them where you learned your skills.” Apicius smiled at me but the warning note in his eye was clear.
I drew in a breath. “I learned from Meton, the coquus to Flavius Maximus before me. I was in his kitchen for seven years. He took me under his wing when he saw that I had a talent for understanding spices. He taught me everything, but I always wanted to experiment. He was very old and as the years passed I did more and more of the cooking in Maximus’s kitchen. After Meton died, Maximus made me coquus. I was called coquus in his kitchen for eighteen months.” I did not add that Meton and Maximus were both like fathers to me and that I still greatly mourned their passing.
“I’ve heard of Meton!” Trio exclaimed. “Remember when your sister stayed with us, Celera? She was raving about him. Said that he was the best cook she had ever encountered. Her husband was very jealous.”
“Her husband was quite a gourmand, was he not?” Aelia asked.
Apicius’s irritation had turned to delight. “One of the best palates in all of Rome, if I recall, right, Celera?”
“Yes, may his genius live on—my brother-in-law is well missed.”
To my relief, Fannia changed the subject. “This ham is delightful! The pastry is perfect, so crisp and flaky.” Her smile highlighted the wrinkles that lined her face. She was heavier than the other women and her dark reddish-brown wig was worn high on her head with curls that puffed out, making her head look as big as an overstuffed pillow. “I must have the recipe for my new cook. If I send over a wax tablet, could you have it transcribed for me?”
“I have tablets, Fannia. And this boy can write the recipe himself. Isn’t that true, Thrasius?”
“Yes, Dominus. I would be happy to write out the recipe.”
“Who taught you how to write?” Popilla asked me, her mouth full of pork, and her tone accusatory.
I had met women like her. No answer I gave was going to satisfy.